


Rescue

by missilemuse



Series: Reichenbach To Return [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Doctor John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Hallucinations, Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this was the way Sherlock Holmes loved, it was no wonder why he had avoided the damned emotion for over half of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> This part was a long time coming, but apparently I'm inspired to write fanfic only when there's an exam around the corner. My muse has an ironic sense of humour. (Unbetaed/britpicked)

 

Sherlock had believed that the one place where he set the rules was his mind Palace.

It was a logical assumption. The bloody thing was _his_ mental construct, his domain. He was the indisputable master of it. It had been forged through years of enforcing an iron will-power and stern discipline that had allowed him to compartmentalise his memories so that he could access exactly what he needed whenever he needed it, nothing more nothing less.

 _This should not be happening_ , he thought as his eyes flickered open to see his best friend kneeling next to his broken body, John Watson’s concerned face blotting out the night sky in Zurich (or was it Bern?), his hands pressed down over Sherlock’s, adding to the pressure over the jagged stab wound at his side.

Sherlock gasped as his vision whitened and slowly focused back on the face he knew ( _had known_ ) even better than his own. Just because he could be dying for real this time was no excuse for his mind to fall apart.

“Come on Sherlock, breathe” John’s voice urged, hard and determined. It wasn’t until he spoke that Sherlock realised exactly how much he had missed the sound of that voice.

Sherlock could not remember where he was, which indicated that the blood loss was rather more severe than he had initially assumed. His attacker was lying on the other side of the dark alleyway, where he had dropped after Sherlock had put a bullet through his head. But John had eyes only for Sherlock. John... who was here in this middle of God knows where in his full military fatigues, the RAMC patch on his arm clearly visible.

“You’re not real,” he threw at the perfect apparition. “You aren’t allowed…” he trailed off, unable to continue. His memories of John were under lock and key in the deepest part of his Palace. He had been afraid to face them because all of his intelligence had failed to let him compute John’s reaction when he would find that Sherlock had survived. In his bleakest moments, Sherlock had only imagined the disgust and censure with which John would greet him on his return. He had not allowed himself to think of his best friend since the graveside visit. It was the only way Sherlock had been able to function.

Dark blue eyes bore steadily into his. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Sherlock marveled. It was true. He had always thought that he would die alone. He should be dying alone right now.

And yet...

Disoriented in time and place but his mind was having absolutely no trouble recreating John from the one time Sherlock had seen him dressed in full uniform for the funeral of an army friend more than a year ago. He could feel his face attempting to split in a wide grin despite the pain.

John’s face tightened in a grimace and Sherlock’s hands inched down a fraction of an inch more. “Push down like that, you tit. More force. Yes, I know it hurts, but help is on its way and you’re going to keep breathing till it gets here. You’re not giving up so easily. I won’t let you.”

Sherlock wanted to scream out loud at the agony and the sheer absurdity of the situation. “You…you shouldn’t be here. You think I’m dead. In my head, you loathe me…want me gone.”

John gave him a tired smile as one of his hands shifted to check his pulse. “The real me thinks you’re dead and gone. You know I’m alive but beyond your reach. Which one of us is suffering the greater punishment, I wonder?”

Sherlock could feel the warm, callused fingers against his wrist just as he had the last time John had touched him as he had lain shamming a corpse in front of Barts, and willed his heart to beat a steady pulse.

“I don’t mind,” he gasped, “…dying like this.”

John’s gaze was implacable. “You’re not dying on my watch, soldier…not today. Do you hear me?”

“Of course…I do. You…you’re inside my head.”

John looked at him in that way he had. It reminded Sherlock of a smile like sunlight, of walking together beneath a sky full of stars, of warm tea and toast with jam, of laughing at crime scenes, of breathless chases all over his beloved London. Even in that non-descript alleyway, with what probably was the last of his blood pouring out, that gaze was like life itself.

“You’re going to get through today,” John’s words were a promise, “-and tomorrow and however many days it takes for you to come back to me. All this pain… your pain, my pain will one day be a thing of the past. We’ll be back together and this won’t matter. We won’t let it matter in the long run. You owe me one more miracle, Sherlock. Just keep breathing.”

Sherlock’s perception had narrowed down to the sound of John’s voice and the feel of his weathered hands on his own numb fingers, keeping them in position. He was so very tired. “I’m sorry, John,” he murmured, as the last dregs of his consciousness threatened to slip away.

“Doesn’t count,” was the last thing his hallucination whispered back, before the world went black.

 

******

 

“Mrs. Seigerson,” the nurse’s tone of voice was overly solicitous.  “There’s a visitor here to see your husband.”

Irene looked up from the book she was reading to see the stiff, starched form of Mycroft Holmes standing behind the deferential nurse. The Bureaucrat however, had eyes only for the still, pale form on the bed. His cool gaze swept from the display monitor tracing a steady heartbeat to Sherlock’s pale brow, to the fingers twitching unconsciously on the sheets. Irene had insisted that the restraints be removed and the treating Surgeon had insisted on sedation. After yesterday's episode, Irene had had no choice but to allow them to put Sherlock under as he healed.

She marveled at Mycroft’s perfect façade, for even as he smoothed his brother’s sweat-matted curls off his forehead, his face gave away nothing.

“He’s still fighting the infection,” she offered, despite the strong instinct to remain silent. This was Mycroft Holmes. He was probably aware of every little detail of Sherlock’s treatment and progress or lack thereof since they had been rushed to the private clinic of Mycroft’s choosing. Her information was superfluous.

She had been re-tracing Sherlock’s movements in Switzerland on Mycroft’s insistence as the detective had been out of touch for over three months. Thanks to Mycroft’s paranoia, she was in Zurich and almost done catching up when Sherlock had sent out a sos on the Sat phone.

She would never forget the scene that had found her when she had reached the co-ordinates passed on by Mycroft’s frantic minion. Sherlock, lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood, one hand pressed down over the gash in his side and the other flung out with the sat phone inches away from his nerveless fingers. She had called for help on her phone before fumbling with the blood-stained buttons of the sat phone as she had dialed the damned thing to relay the situation to Holmes Senior.

She had had Sherlock’s blood on her fingers, which was probably why she hadn’t given the second body much thought- that and the fact that Sherlock had barely had a pulse.

It was her people who had helped rush Sherlock to the nearest hospital with an intensive care unit, where being the consummate actress; she had played the distraught touristy wife to perfection. It had been a touching tale of how her dear husband had asked her wait at the hotel while he went to wire some money back home and now what was she to do. As she was paying cash, in true Swiss tradition, the hospital hadn’t asked too many questions. Accola and Gavin had corroborated her story. Having the local Police on your side was always a plus.

She hadn’t faked the anxious vigil. They had told her that the odds of Sherlock surviving the emergency surgery were very slim.

But the stubborn arse had proved them wrong and just as she had been preparing to lie through her teeth to the Embassy officials expected to visit them; it was Mycroft Holmes’ prim Secretary who had walked in instead with a doctor and paramedics in tow. Deaf to the Surgeon’s protests that the patient was too weak for a transfer, Irene had followed wordlessly as the required papers changed hands and Sherlock was whisked in a state of the art ambulance to the nearest airfield, from where a helicopter had flown them to this posh clinic on the outskirts of Meiringen, in the middle of the fucking Alps.

It had the quiet, dignified opulence of a place that usually catered to the outrageously wealthy, which had suited her just fine.  A place like that offered absolute privacy and security and they desperately needed both. Mycroft’s assistant had debriefed her and to her great surprise, Irene was informed that she was to continue playing the fictional persona of Sherlock’s wife. She was handed passports and papers, confirming their new aliases. When Sherlock had been safely ensconced in a private room, the minion had left.

It had been ten days since. Ten agonizing days spent with a waxing and waning hope that Sherlock would come out of this, relatively unscathed. On day two, there had been a second major surgery when the doctors had decided that his left kidney had to come out as there was no chance of salvaging it. When it was assumed that they had dealt with the worst of it, the infection had struck and Sherlock had to be shifted into Intensive care again. The fresh blood cultures had come back today and they had started a newer, stronger antibiotic. But Irene, who had made a living out of guessing what people were thinking, had watched the nursing staff with trepidation as they tiptoed around her, already treating her like a prospective widow.

Irene had dealt with all of it, signing each consent form as it was put before her, feeling like more of an imposter that she had ever felt in her life. She battled the fierce temptation to call up the person who should rightfully be here, the one supposed to be making these decisions, the one who could actually make a damned bit of difference.

She found herself thinking viciously of him as she gave them the permission to proceed with the nephrectomy, _John Watson, you lucky bastard!_

“Miss Adler, what do you think? Is my brother is going to survive?” Mycroft Holmes’ cool voice broke into her reverie and she looked up to find an almost too familiar gaze assessing her.

“Dr. Friedmann was very-”

Mycroft made an impatient sound. “Miss Adler, I asked for your opinion. You know him best and you have barely left his side. Your input would be valuable.”

Irene bristled at the implication, “I barely left his side because Bryan Gerth was Moran’s right hand man. I had no idea if there were any witnesses to your baby brother’s murder spree, but all hell will have broken loose with this last one. Gerth was an important piece.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Yes, she was. Because the answer wasn’t that simple.

She wondered if Mycroft had the room under surveillance, whether he knew about the fluent conversations Sherlock had had with an imaginary presence, while high on sedatives from the second surgery.

_Yes! John, the fingerprints could not have been there as the murderer was a trained chimpanzee…_

_Oh, goodness, John I told you I had lunch on Sunday. It’s only Tuesday and I’m on a case. Go away…_

_No, No, No, he couldn’t possibly have murdered his father, John. How can you watch such tripe, just because it’s on the telly!_

_A cup of tea for me too if you’re making one for yourself and one of Mrs. Hudson’s scones. They should be on the bottom-most shelf of the- I do not ‘pilfer’ her fridge, John. Don’t be absurd. You know, she loves feeding us._

_Oh! John, you’re a genius. The travel agent had an identical twin, it’s the only explanation that permits him to be in two places at once…_

A couple of days back, she had woken up from a fitful slumber to a hoarse shout from her feverish charge, who had made it out of the railed hospital bed before she could blink her eyes fully open. Sherlock had yanked out his iv lines and hobbled to the door yelling to John that Lestrade had called about a locked room murder and if they wanted five minutes on the crime scene, they had to leave _right now!_

It had taken two orderlies to wrestle Sherlock back into bed and restrain him. The doctor had called it ‘febrile delusions’ as Sherlock had been spiking a high fever from the infection.

Though each episode had sent an indefinable ache through Irene, she still preferred the imaginary jargon to the periods of frightening lucidity, when Sherlock did recognize her. It had happened only twice and she dreaded the third time.

“JOHN! Irene, I can’t find him. I looked everywhere. He’s simply disappeared. I’ve lost him. I need h…I need to find him.”

Irene had held the shivering detective, before he could yank out the iv again. She had tried reasoning with the man. “John is in London, Sherlock. He’s fine. He’s safe. You’re keeping him safe, remember.” _Please remember_ , she begged wordlessly as his terror stricken eyes darted everywhere, as though hoping to find John Watson behind the window curtains.

“NO! No, you don’t understand. London is right where I had locked it, along with everyone else. I looked all over the Palace. John is missing. He broke out and now he’s gone. I…I can’t lose him, Irene.”

The second time it had happened, Sherlock had hyperventilated and lost consciousness, his blood pressure had spiked off the charts and  he had strained the healing suture site.

Irene had signed the consent form for sedation with shaking fingers.

If this was the way Sherlock Holmes loved, it was no wonder why he had avoided the damned emotion for over half of his life.

She could not put Sherlock’s desperate, searching gaze out of her mind. For no reason at all, it reminded her of Kate and the last time they had touched before she had left London for good. It had only been a hug inside a crowded airport, but Irene had kept her eyes on the speck that was London, long after the aircraft had left the ground.

“Yes,” she answered the Iceman’s questioning glare with confidence. “I know what the doctors think. But he’s going to make it.”

The small, firm nod showed that Mycroft was not going to ask her why. Maybe he knew the reason too, had known it all along.

After Holmes had left, she curled up with her book again, noting that that the fever chart was now showing a downward trend.

She allowed her eyes to drift shut. This was only a brief period of calm in the storm. When Sherlock was back on his feet, they had Sebastian Moran to contend with.

As of now, she could really use a good night’s sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.


End file.
